Five Times Wes Helped the Warblers
by pi-on-a-skateboard
Summary: ...And the one time he crumbled.    Loosely based off There's Something About Blaine. Wes is always there for his precious Warblers. But what happens when he is the one needing help?
1. Chapter 1

**A.N: This is loosely based off my story, There's Something About Blaine. Which I have been writing and falling more and more in love with Wes in. But I don't think it's essential to read that before this, I just like shamelessly self-promoting :P**

**Should have Wes' one time up here soon for you. **

**Edit: Found some interesting timing things... such as Wes and Jeff being in the same year? ... that make no sense in my head-canon, let alone actual canon, so just fixing that up slightly.  
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**Hope you enjoy it! Keep smiling! :D  
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><p><strong>I.<strong>

**A very good place to start.**

"Hey there, newbie! My name is Wes, and I'll be sort of like your big brother for the year," he looked down at the boy, who had almost jumped out of his skin. "Now, I've got this bit of paper here that's got your name and various details about you on it, because Dalton's sort of creepy when it comes to that whole stalker issue thing, but I think it's much more polite if I give you the chance to speak. So, tell me about yourself!"

"My name's David," the black boy offered a hand. "Just moved here from Michigan."

"You're from Michigan?"

"Yeah!"

"Great!" Wes gave him the thumbs up. "Do you need a hand with anything? Got all your bags? Know where you're going?"

David flung down his duffel, rummaging through his pockets. "Says here I'm living in Moon house. Can you take me there? Please? I hate to ask but this school is so freaking BIG and there don't seem to be any teachers ANYWHERE…"

Wes laughed. "Awesome, you're in my house! Yeah, I think we scare them, they tend to stick to themselves and have as little to do with us as possible. Strange creatures." He bent down to grab one of David's suitcases. "So, what do you do with yourself in your spare time? And get your head out the gutter!"

"I dance and play music and stuff…" David admitted, looking down. But Wes broke into a huge grin.

"That's awesome, dude! The Warblers, they're like rock-stars! I can totally hook you up with an audition if you want!"

"Thanks, man!" David finally smiled. "So, have you seen the latest Harry Potter?"

Wes stopped dead in his tracks, whipping around to face the younger boy. "Of course. I can't believe they removed Dumbledore's funeral!"

David looked at him. "Did we just become best friends?"

"Yep!"

* * *

><p><strong>II.<strong>

**Harder and harder to breathe.**

"Etchoo! Ha… ha-etchoo! Etchoo!"

"Bless you, Callum!" Wes flicked his eyes briefly from his algebra homework to his obviously ill roommate. He couldn't help but feel a stab of guilt – he had been sick all week and now he'd probably passed it to the poor kid.

Callum groaned and threw himself down on his bed, brushing a lock of black hair from his emerald eyes. "I cad't believe you jusd pud up with this!"

Wes smiled sympathetically. "And now I have all this work to catch up on. At least you'll get the worst of it over the weekend."

"Add thad's beadt to be a codsolatiod?" He sniffed. "Dude, I feel like I'm dying…"

"Get some sleep, Callum, you'll feel better in the morning. You want me to go annoy David while I'm studying?" Wes twirled his pencil while waiting for a response.

"Dooooooooooooo," the boy moaned. "Just… please stop talkigg to be."

"Deal." Wes brought his focus back to the cubic equation staring at him. And for a while there was silence, broken only by the intermittent sniffs and coughing. But then a weird squeaking noise filled the air.

Wes stared at his roommate's bed, rushing over as it began to shake with Callum's shivering. He put a hand over the boy's forehead, recoiling at the heat billowing from his clammy cheeks. Damn.

"Callum? Hey, Cal? You okay, man?" The boy grunted in response.

"I'm going to go grab you some Advil, okay? Just don't die in the time I'm gone," he joked, grabbing a face-washer his way out the dorm door. He worked quickly, running the cloth under cold water to make a compress and grabbing one of the emergency cups from the bathroom.

His eyes immediately sought the bed as he re-entered the room. Callum had now kicked off the covers and lay huddled in the foetal position, stifling a fit of coughing into his fist.

Wes crouched next to the bed, putting the washer on his forehead while rubbing soothing circles into his back. When the coughing finally died he helped Callum sit up, passing him the glass of water and ibuprofen.

"Thacks," Callum choked out, so congested it was evident even in his whispers. Then he sneezed weakly.

Wes passed him a tissue box, frowning slightly. "Can you breathe okay?" There was a wheeze, and in the close proximity he could feel the boy straining to draw in air.

Callum shook his head, coughing again. "Probably deed nebuliser."

Wes jumped up instantly, grabbing his own Ventolin inhaler and chucking it to the bed. "Use that now. Where do you keep it?"

Callum pointed to the cupboard. Wes hurried over, pulling out a small blue box. He crouched down beside the bed once more, plugging in all the machinery.

"Cal, it's been years since I last used one of these, does that look right?" He held up part of the reservoir below the mask. Callum nodded, his elbows on his knees, gasping.

"Ode dose." Wes added to the reservoir, screwed the thing together and passed him the mask, flipping on the machine. A shrill whining filled the air and Callum lay back against the headboard, staring out the window.

"So… what happens now, Cal? Hospital? The nurse?"

Callum shook his head, closing his eyes and holding up a shaking hand. A few more minutes.

Wes sat cross-legged at the end of the bed, eyes probing the boy. He did seem to be regaining some colour, the pink slowly fading, and his coughing was slowing down… Funny how Wes always seemed to find himself in these situations, always the leader, always caring for everyone else. Lucky he hadn't forced anyone else to reciprocate yet.

Five minutes later and Callum could manage a few breaths without them catching in his throat. He paused the machine briefly to blow his nose, eyes gleaming with the fever. "Helps me get more meds," he explained, switching it back on.

"So, how often do you get asthma?" Wes was curious. Obviously some of the other boys in the school suffered from attacks, but he hadn't seen one this bad since middle school.

"Only whed I'b sick," came the congested response. "But I ged better pretty quick. This'll get me through the night."

Wes sighed. "If it were just a cold, I'd say stay here. I've done first aid and stuff, and believe me, I've got experience with asthma. But do you want to stay? Or should I go get the nurse?"

Callum laughed. "Dude, stop freakigg out. I'll be okay. Look, by breathigg's better already, see?" And it certainly was, his chest rising and falling with very little shoulder involvement… God, only a singer would notice that! "If I deed it agaid todight thed sure, get rid of be. I'll probably get sobe steroids toborrow, but dude, dod't stress, okay? I'b a big boy, I cad look after byself bost of the tibe."

Wes shook his head. "Hey, don't make me threaten you with my gavels…" he warned him.

Not that he realised it, but Callum really respected him at that moment. He knew Wes had some crazy kind of 'saving people' complex, but the fact that the boy could sit there and just joke around? That took skill.

"Wes? I'b bored. Whad do you wadd to do whed you grow up?"

"God, I'm lucky my name doesn't have any nasals in it, aren't I?" he teased, thinking. "Honestly, Cal, I'm not entirely sure. I love all this doctor stuff, but I can see myself doing music theatre or teaching some day as well. How about you?"

"Siggigg," the boy immediately coughed. "Sigg… Dabbit, I cad't say that freakigg word, I'b too stuffed up."

Wes was laughing. "We'll have to audition you for a solo… Once you can actually say the name of your dreams, of course."

Callum laughed too, which turned into a hacking cough. "Yuck." He turned off the nebuliser, which had finally finished. "Sorry, Wes. That's godda happed a lot todight."

"Don't ask how I acquired this," Wes smiled, handing over a kidney dish. "But don't worry about it. I know what asthma's like, I've been there. Just yell if you need anything." He stood up again, moving towards his desk to complete the horrendous integration set he'd been given.

"Hey, Wes?"

"Yeah?"

"If you repeat this to adyode I'll dedy it, but I'b actually really lucky to have you as a fried."

Wes grinned. "Go to sleep, Cal, I think the Advil's making you loopy."

* * *

><p><strong>III.<strong>

**With a little help from my friends.**

"Um… Wes… Are you busy?"

Wes glanced up from his English essay, books scattered around the desk. "Nick. What's up?"

"Are you busy?" The boy repeated, fiddling nervously with his blazer. "I can come back later if you want…"

Wes sighed. He had a feeling he knew exactly what this was about. "Give me five minutes to pack all this up and return some books. Want to grab a coffee?"

Nick nodded. "Thanks," he whispered.

And soon enough they were seated opposite each other in a private corner of the senior common-room, Wes gazing down with a hint of pride at the mouse of a brunette in front of him.

"So, Nick. What can I do for you tonight?"

Nick looked up briefly before returning his vision to the steaming coffee mug clutched close to his stomach. "I… Look, I'm really sorry, I know I've only known you for like a month but I… I trust you. And I have to tell someone, it's driving me nuts, it's like I'm lying by omission and it feels really false and just… I'm sorry."

Wes patted his shoulder briefly, then raised his own mug. "Mmm. No need to apologise, I'm glad to listen. What do you want to tell me?"

Nick tried to focus on calming his heart, on breathing long and deep. "I'm… I'm gay," he whispered, blushing. "Sorry, just… I mean, I'm pretty sure of that, it's who I am, please don't hate me… "

Wes' face cracked with a huge smile. "Nick. Look at me." He took the boy's chin, forcing his eyes upwards. "I'm proud of you."

Nick gasped. "You're… _proud_… of me? No one has ever said that to me before, especially not after… something like that."

"Telling someone took a lot of courage," Wes told him. "I'm really glad that you trusted me. And if you ever need to talk about _anything_, you know I'm here, right?"

Nick glanced down again, eyes starting to glisten. "Thank you," he whispered.

"Look, Nick. Dalton's pretty cool, you won't be judged here." Wes reassured him.

"Maybe… But I don't want everyone to know yet," Nick told him forcefully.

Wes smiled. "Fair enough. But Nick. Whether you're gay, straight, purple, orange, dinosaur… I really don't care. You are Nick, the very shy, nerdy, absolutely hilarious performer, and nothing will change that."

Nick finally gave him a wavery smile. "Can I hug you?"

Wes nodded, opening his arms.

* * *

><p><strong>IV.<strong>

**When it all falls apart.**

Wes was running late. Sure, it was only for breakfast, but nevertheless. Wes was always on time, always organised, always setting a good example. Yet somehow this morning the senior had found himself sprinting down the corridors, tying his tie as he ran.

But he slowed as he passed the music rooms. Something was not right. He stopped, putting a finger in the air, his Warbler-sense tingling. Someone needed him.

Sure enough, as he rounded the corner he was met by the sound of sobbing, muffled slightly as it fought with the oak door of the choir room. He knocked, then slowly pushed the door open.

"Hey, Jeff. Are you okay?"

The boy jumped a mile, hastily sweeping away the tears pouring down his face. "Fine…" he sniffled.

Wes halted. Fine was such modern vernacular. Fine meant my world is crumbling into tiny pieces like fish food, about to be devoured by melancholy, and I need help. It was a shock actually – the boy was usually so bubbly, even if he'd been up all night studying or looking after Blaine or talking to his family back home in Australia. He wanted to help the boy, but he didn't want to push him away…

"Jeff, you can tell me to leave at any time… but did something happen?"

Jeff brought a trembling fist to his face, a piece of paper stuffed inside it, pushing against his cheekbones in attempt to stop a fresh wave of tears. "Just me being an idiot, Wes."

Oh, God. The self-blame. This couldn't end well. "Jeff, I've seen you do some pretty dumb stuff. I've never seen you like this before. I'm more than happy to leave you alone, if that's what you need. Or I can keep asking you questions till that boulder on your chest tumbles off. Your choice, man."

"I'm… mountains out of molehills, Wes. It's silly."

Wes shook his head, checking the door was closed before he started making his way to the weeping boy. "Then there's obviously more going on that's driven you to this. You want to tell me about it?" He squatted down in front of Jeff, arms crossed and eyes concerned.

"My Mum sent me a letter," Jeff finally said. "She… She has to stay home down under for awhile. Just got signed to do the next season of Offspring, the TV show my cousin is in… And… and…" he started sobbing again.

So Jeff was homesick. That Wes could definitely understand. He reached into his pocket and handed Jeff a pack of travel tissues. "You miss your family," he stated simply, plainly.

Jeff looked up, nodding. "Yeah. But she's pregnant."

Oh. Oh. _Oh_. Jeff's parents had divorced only a couple of years ago, and his mother flitted between Australia and New York, so they'd sent Jeff to Dalton. But now she'd obviously found someone back home and… yeah, the breakdown was even more understandable.

"She said it'll be a boy. And because of her work, I'm going to miss everything! Winter break is too short to go back home, so he'll be a few months old before I get to meet him! And then I'll have to come back here for the next two years… Are they ashamed of me, Wes? Is that why they've sent me here, so far apart from them?"

"Hey. Stop that." Wes pulled him into a hug. "Jeff, you're an honours student just going into your sophomore year, you play sport, you sing, and if you asked anyone around this school they'd all tell you that you're a great friend who would do absolutely anything and everything for those around him. And when you and Nick finally wake up and realise that you're both crazy for each other, I guarantee you that our junior students will have the power couple of the school." They broke apart, Wes staring him deep in the eye. "Jeff, there's no way they'd be ashamed of you. And if it helps, I'm proud of you and everything you've achieved. And so are the rest of the Warblers."

Jeff sniffed, resting his forehead on his open palms. "I just… I want to go home, Wes."

Wes pushed himself onto the opposite leather armchair. "There's nothing wrong with that, Jeff. We all get homesick."

"Yeah, but none of you break down crying because of it!" Jeff spat in self-disgust.

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Wes told him, thinking of the many times he'd held various guys as they told him stories of parents and siblings.

"Well… _you_ don't." Jeff accused.

"No. I don't," Wes agreed, though he had to be careful not to reveal too much of his own life and belittle Jeff… "I've been separated from my parents for a lot longer, I'm quite used to it now."

Jeff sighed. "I'm sorry. I know you have your own issues. And then you have to deal with all of us as well."

Wes smiled. "That's my job. And now, your job as the terrific big brother I know you'll become, is to get a smile back on that dial of yours and join me for a… rather late… brekkie."

And Jeff did smile. "Brekkie? Are you going to be having Vegemite soldiers with me this morning?"

Wes pulled a face, messing up the blonde hair. "Your Aussie terms may be rubbing off on me, Jeff, but there is no way in HELL you'll ever get me to eat that stuff!"

"Eh. Tomato, tomato. One day you'll realise how amazing it is…" Jeff jumped up, earlier troubles momentarily forgotten. "You know, I'll have you all singing this one day."

And he marched down the corridor, a few steps ahead of Wes, singing and dancing.

_We're happy little Vegemites, as bright as bright can be…_

* * *

><p><strong>V.<strong>

**George of the jungle.**

"_Babe… I got you, babe…_"

Wes groaned, slapping at his phone. He was going to kill David for setting and _locking_ that as his alarm tone. But… it was just past midnight. And it wasn't stopping.

"_Babe… I got you, babe…_"

Oh. That's right. David, in his infinite wisdom, had also managed to set that as his ringtone. But who would be calling this late at night?

_Tiny Tim calling._

Oh. Shit.

"Blaine? What's up?" Wes croaked into the phone, rubbing his eyes.

"Wes? I… ummm…" Wes could practically hear the boy hyperventilating.

"Blaine, calm down. What's wrong?"

"Can you come get me?" Wes' heart broke.

"Where are you? What happened?" Wes squeezed the phone between his shoulder and his ear, grabbing his keys and jumping as he pulled on a pair of shoes.

"I didn't see it, Wes. I think I must have fallen asleep. Why didn't I see it?" Well, there was no stutter, so Wes felt slightly better. But the words were still nonsensical.

"Didn't see what, Blaine? Where are you?" Then Wes remembered Blaine had been driving home that night to see his family. It was midnight. He'd left hours ago… Was he going home or coming back?

"The tree. There was a big bang and the car's broken, Wes. I don't know what to do."

Wes inhaled, trying to fully awaken the coherent part of his mind before setting off. "Did you call 911, Blaine? And dude, seriously, where are you?"

There was silence, then Blaine's voice came back on the line, louder and more certain. "I'm on the Jack Nicklaus Freeway, near Sancus Boulevard. And I may have hit a tree. My car's getting towed, but I think I'm okay…"

Wes snorted. Trust Blaine. He jumped in his Mini Cooper, almost stalling the engine in his rush. "Hang tight, I'm on my way. Stay on the line with me, alright?"

"I'm scared, Wes. I just woke up and there it was…"

Wes pressed his fingernails against his sinuses, the headache which had forced him to an early bed beginning to return. "What's your BSL?"

"I don't have my kit," Blaine admitted. "I wasn't planning on staying long. I really don't know, I'm all shaky from the crash."

Wes groaned. Of course. The idiot. Accelerator off, clutch, gear up, friction point… friction point… There we go. Accelerate! "I'm 10 minutes away. I've only got one thing to say to you, Blaine."

"What's that?" Blaine hesitated.

Wes grinned. "George, George, George of the jungle, watch out for that TREE!"

There we go. There was that infectious laugh. He'd be fine.

"Hey, Blaine? Blaine? Blaine? Blaine?"

"What, Wes?"

Check the distance travelled. Be there in 5. "You know the black bits in bananas? Are they tarantula's eggs?"

"Wes. Please don't ever speak to me again." But Blaine was still laughing. Fantastic. Keep him going. Poor thing must be freezing in the cold.

Wes changed a gear down as he neared the boulevard. "Where are you, Blaine?" Hmm. Big trees. Where are the big trees? There was none. Oh. But there was… a stop sign? With a car?

Wes pulled up slowly. "Get in, loser, we're going shopping."

Blaine poked out his tongue briefly, shivering. "My mother always told me not to talk to strangers. Especially ones in ridiculous cars with empty promises of shopping."

Wes rummaged in the passenger glovebox, pulling out a packet of Red Vines. "Candy do the trick then?"

Blaine jumped in. "You had me at hello."

They watched his car be towed away before Wes flicked on the indicator once again. "So, Blaine, tell me… How did you manage to confuse a tree and a stop sign?"

Blaine stared. "Well, obviously your sugar's done the trick. Thanks so much, by the way."

Wes grinned. "My pleasure. But… you do realise you're going to be teased endlessly about this?"

"You wouldn't! Wesley, I'm disappointed in you, threatening the image of my perfect dapperness!"

"Actually…" Wes trailed off maliciously. "I think I know what song the Warblers will be performing next…"

"… What?" Blaine asked apprehensively.

Wes flicked on his iPod, the scenario he'd begun to plan during his drive up going perfectly. He began to sing along. "Greg, you missed the stop sign! Greg! The stop sign!"


	2. And the One Time He Crumbled

**AN: For the purposes of continuity (bitches love continuity), let's just say that Glee is set a year in the future, okay? Also... yeah, angst warning.**

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><p>On the morning of Sunday the 11th of September, the year 2011 CE, Wesley Montgomery did not get out of bed. This was, in fact, a most curious scenario, one of which none of the Warblers had ever previously been forced to deal with. They had seen him collapse from illness and fatigue before. They had seen him refuse to speak to people in the fear of losing to a fit of rage before. They had seen him staring, face tear-streaked, at an untouched bowl of porridge before. But whether rain or sun, snow or hail, clouds or blue sky, without fail, Wes would be found sitting at the head of the Warbler table for breakfast at precisely 0730 hrs every morning.<p>

By 10 am, the Warblers in their entirety – bar their head council member – had gathered in the choir room, quiet whispers gently flowing around the stark leather chairs. They all knew why they were there. The trouble was, their goal could not be achieved without their leader.

Finally at 11 am, their initial concern was slowly morphing into frustration at being kept waiting for such a long time. So David and Blaine in a mutual silent understanding rose from their seats on the council desk and began the trek to the senior dormitories.

With every step they could feel their hearts pound, slowly first, then faster, stronger, as they found themselves near sprinting to his door. They stood outside, just looking at each other, ears straining for any sort of sound as they caught their breath. Then David raised a trembling fist and knocked twice on the door, before Blaine slowly twisted the handle and pushed in the rosewood.

"Oh, Wes," one of the boys spoke, though no one knew who. The room, as always, was immaculately ordered – books stacked neatly on the shelves, clothes folded or hanging pristinely in the wardrobe, its door slightly ajar, violin in its case lying by the folded music stand and arranged by the stacks of sheet music. This perfection only exposed the ruins of the tumultuous boy lying facedown on top of his rumpled sheets, a sopping pillow clutched to his chest, his torso sporadically tensing as perpetual tears wracked his body.

They boys crept towards the bed, scuffing their shoes in a futile attempt to uphold the thick silence percolating through the air. David sat behind Wes, reaching out a lonely arm to rub his back, to let him know that he was not alone. Blaine moved to the other side, tugging the pillow down so that he could see the boy's face, thumb beginning to wipe away the despair staining his cheeks. Wes just lay there, not bothering to turn his shame away, not bothering to put up a fight, not caring any longer who saw him for all his wretchedness.

**Hello, darkness, my old friend,**

**I've come to talk with you again,**

**Because a vision softly creeping**

**Left its seeds while I was sleeping,**

**And the vision that was planted in my brain**

**Still remains**

**Within the sounds of silence.**

No one had known what to expect from Wes that day. They all knew it was the 10 year anniversary. Even though they had only been as young as five or old as eight at the time, it still burnt in the deep recesses of their brains like a bushfire, one that could be fought and sometimes kept abated but always there lurked the threat of relighting and losing control. But no one had lost as much as Wes. And no one had ever seen him lose control before. Wes was always there for his friends, whether it be a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, a staff of support, a rock… He never complained, never spoke about his own troubles, never took anything out on his own friends – until today, when his façade had crumbled like puff pastry, swept up into the bin and vacuumed and washed off plates, the pieces forever separated.

"Wes, the Warblers are all waiting for you," David gently prompted him. "They want to help."

Wes forced himself into a sitting position, his silence still unbroken. He was calmer now, slowly regaining some of that strict control he usually kept. But behind his eyes poured black smoke, and David and Blaine both knew this was only the eye of the storm. Swinging his legs around the side of the bed, the boys gripped him under his shoulders, transferring some of their own strength as they helped pull him to his feet. They didn't question him, or his obviously dishevelled state. They just put an arm around their shoulders and helped him slump down to the choir room.

The obmutescence followed them down the staircase, through the corridors, unnatural, like the devil himself had cloaked their feet with clouds of sulphur and subterfuge. Finally they pushed open the oak doors and entered the choir room, the audible gasps from more than one Warbler reaffirming their footing in reality. They sat Wes down on an armchair, watching his jaw set, his blood-rimmed eyes unseeing, his hair spiked at seemingly uncanny angles, fists turning white at the knuckles as he clenched the loose cotton of his pyjama pants. With a gentle pat on the shoulder, David and Blaine broke away, walking backwards into formation as the choir en masse opened their mouths, music pouring from them with that eerie, almost supernatural beauty, speaking of love and loss and all that is right and wrong in the world.

**Where are we?**

**What the hell is going on?**

**The dust has only just begun to form**

**Crop circles in the carpet.**

**Sinking feeling…**

Wes blinked.

* * *

><p><em>Smoke. Thick black smoke pouring from the buildings. Screaming, everyone screaming and crying. Acrid smell, even though he was 2500 miles away in Los Angeles. Building falling down. Fire burning. Where were his normal cartoons?<em>

_Bad feeling. Something wrong. Not the building. Building wasn't important. Why was it so bad? Why was his obaa-chan crying?_

* * *

><p>Wes shuddered. He didn't want to remember that.<p>

**Spin me round**

**Again and rub my eyes,**

**This can't be happening.**

**When busy streets amass with people who stop to hold**

**Their heads, heavy.**

Wes looked up at the pain and confusion and concern in the eyes of his choir. All his friends, standing in straight lines, completely united despite their different ages, races, social status, clothes, all trying to reach out to him, to reassure him, to fill that hole in his heart.

* * *

><p><em>Phone ringing once.<em>

"_Moshi-moshi… Ah. Hai! Wesley-bo! Koko ni kinasai! Hayakushite!"_

_Why is Wes needed on the phone? Why does he have to hurry?_

"_Hayakushiro!"_

_Okay, he's going, he's going._

"_Moshi-moshi."_

"_Wesley, I do not have much time, there is something happening on my plane. I don't think Baba and myself will be home tonight. Aishiteru-yo."_

_Wes didn't know what that meant. Then his dad came on the phone._

"_Wesley, be a big man, be strong, make me proud. I will see you soon. Wo ai ni!"_

_Phone died._

"_Here, obaa-chan."_

* * *

><p>Wes shuddered. The last time he'd ever spoken to his parents. His mother saying she loved him, such a strange phrase in the Japanese. His father telling him to be strong. And now he'd let them down. He'd broken.<p>

**Hide and seek.**

**Trains and sewing machines.**

**All those years…**

**They were here first.**

Wes didn't want this. He didn't want to remember. What happened in the past should stay in the past, it shouldn't be mercilessly dug up. But the flashbacks rolled on and on.

* * *

><p>"<em>Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness. We've just seen another plane hit the East building. Oh my goodness. I'm speaking out of turn here, but I think we can say we're looking at a deliberate attack here. An attack on New York City. Oh my goodness."<em>

_Tuesday morning. Wes had been sick. His grandmother had been looking after him while his parents frantically tried to book a plane home from Boston, finally grabbing the last few spots on United Airlines Flight 175._

_9:03 am. Wesley watched the second plane hit the Twin Towers, wondering when his obaa-chan had lost enough of her marbles to let him watch cool movies like that. Only later did he realise it was actually real, that people had actually died – and only years later did he realise that he had watched the demise of his parents._

* * *

><p>Wes brought a hand to his eyes, trying to shield them. No, stop. He hadn't thought about this in years. Hadn't felt anything. Hadn't seen anything.<p>

**Oily marks appear on walls**

**Where pleasure moments hung before**

**The takeover,**

**The sweeping insensitivity**

**Of this still life.**

Thousands of people had died in the attacks. Not just his parents. Not just the people on the plane. Normal, everyday people, going about their everyday lives. People trapped in buildings, people gaining the only control they had left and jumping out windows rather than be claimed by smoke or terrorists. Children with a whole future ahead of them, adults just about to be promoted, elderly people waiting to pass on their wisdom and knowledge to future generations. All lost.

Where was the justice in that? If there was a God up there – and Wes really didn't want to know – how could he just let something like that happen? There were babies on that plane. What wrong could they have possibly done, to deserve such a cruel destruction?

**Hide and seek.**

**Trains and sewing machines.**

**(Oh, you won't catch me around here.)**

**Blood and tears (hearts),**

**They were here first.**

Damn. He'd been able to move on with his life. He'd stopped blaming himself years ago. It wasn't his fault that he got sick, it wasn't his fault that the plane had crashed… Yet he was the reason his parents were on that plane.

Wes turned grey, nausea beginning to swell up his gastrointestinal tract. No. He wouldn't vomit. He'd already made enough of a fool of himself in front of these guys today. Why had he let David and Blaine take him down? Why hadn't he forced them away?

But Wes wasn't like that. He had to move on, he always did, but he didn't lock away his emotions. He could ignore them, but ultimately they helped him connect to other people. He just hoped that the group would still respect him after his breakdown today.

Thoughts and worries and emotions mixed with the flashbacks, thrown around like vodka and ice in a cocktail shaker.

* * *

><p>"<em>Moshi-moshi." Obaa-chan answered the phone, voice cracking with emotional strain. "No. English no good. I get Wesley."<em>

_Wes accepted the phone with shaking hands. "Hello?"_

_The officer seemed surprised. "Hi. My name is Kevin, and I'm a police officer. What's your name, son?"_

"_Wesley, sir."_

"_Alright. How old are you? Is there anyone else there that can talk to us?"_

_That was strange. "I am eight years old!" He said proudly. "My obaa-chan is here, I can put her back on but she asked me to talk and I have to respect her, my daddy told me."_

_There was a sigh. "Wes, I hate to be the bearer of bad news… Your parents are both dead."_

* * *

><p>Wes still felt sorry for that officer, having to tell so many people dreadful news. Maybe that's why Wes was always the first to know whenever anything had happened – because he could relate.<p>

**Mmm, whatcha say?**

**Mmm, that you only meant well?**

**Well of course you did.**

**Mmm, whatcha say?**

**Mmm, that it's all for the best?**

**Of course it is.**

**Mmm, whatcha say?**

**Mmm, well it's just what we need.**

**You decided this.**

**Whatcha say?**

**Mmm, what did she say?**

It wouldn't make sense. It would never make sense. Wes had given up trying to understand it long ago.

Still the onslaught of memories came crashing over his head, dragging him out like a rip to the back of the beach of torment, devouring his energy so that he would be lost.

* * *

><p><em>The funeral. Or, more accurately, memorial service, seeing as their bodies were never recovered. His grandparents making speeches in their native language and Wes translating as best he could into English. Saying goodbye.<em>

* * *

><p><em>The news. Every night. Every channel. Hoping, praying that something would be found.<em>

* * *

><p><em>Friends and family talking to him. Giving him food, money. Hugs. Lots of hugs.<em>

* * *

><p><em>Lots of crying. Tissues.<em>

* * *

><p><em>Moving to Ohio. Running from something? From bad memories. Boxes piled in front of the door.<em>

* * *

><p><em>First anniversary.<em>

* * *

><p><em>Moving forwards. Getting happier. Then sad again. Eternal undulation between the two.<em>

* * *

><p>Wes gasped as he felt himself dragged under. He considered raising an arm, the international call for help.<p>

**Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth.**

**Bittersweet talk, newspaper word cut outs.**

**Speak, no, feeling, no, I don't believe you.**

**You don't care a bit,**

**You don't care a bit.**

Wes glanced up, watching all his boys. David, who'd been his best friend since they'd met, who'd come to him so many times throughout the years needing homework help, girl help… Blaine and Callum, who's lives he'd already saved countless times… Jeff and Nick, whom he'd help find each other. Thad, who always came to Wes with stuff on his mind. Trent, who'd confessed several suspicious cuts on his arms...

And as Nick begun to sing in his glorious falsetto – Nick, who had lost an older sister at the same time – Wes knew. He knew that this hadn't been sung to torment him. The group had chosen to sing it, to express a united sorrow, to let Wes know that just as he had done so many times for them, they would always support him.

And as he felt himself be pulled into a massive group hug, the tears again began to stream freely down his face, and Wes knew that he had been saved.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope I did this justice for you. Apologies for the wait for the 'and one' but I wanted it to be, you know, not complete rubbish...<strong> **Living in Australia with no relatives overseas, I only got a very outside perspective of September 11. But I do know what it's like to lose someone, especially in awful circumstances. So if you ever need to talk about anything, I'm always available. I always say this, my regular readers are probably sick of it by now, but I'd much rather be able to give you a hand (or an ear, as the case may be) than have you sitting feeling alone with no idea what to do.**

**So, anytime, feel free to hit up my Ask box on Tumblr (pi-on-a-skateboard. tumblr. com) or PM me. Or talk to a friend. Just don't keep it all locked up inside, because (and TRUST me on this) you will break.**

**Enough with the depressing. I have tonight's episode of Glee sitting in wait for me. And I promise I'll go back to There's Something About Blaine now - I just had to get this out the way :P**

**Keep smiling! :D  
><strong>


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